


One Hand on the Trigger and One Hand on the Cross

by EluWrites (DeanC)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21514474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanC/pseuds/EluWrites
Summary: These are drabbles I've thrown about on the UnDeadwood discord, posted here so I don't lose them.Tags and ratings may change depending, as the nsfw chat is a thing and I sometimes drop in there ¬¬There may be spoilers for various episodes of the show, but I'll mark those below!Chapter 1: Discussing clothes sharing prompt, Clayton accidentally throwing on Mason's shirt came to mind.Chapter 2: Based on Siren!Clayton and Mason having sign language to speak to eachotherChapter 3: Drabble on the idea of Clayton being touchstarvedChapter 4: Softness for GrannyOaky (@grannyboo)Chapter 5: A flip-around of a headcanon in NSFW , dedicated to the memory of @baeuregard, whom I killed with this.Chapter 6: Clay likes Mason when he's angry.Chapter 7: Matthew needs to let off some steamChapter 8: Undead Priest? What?Chapter 9: Revenge against a door (NSFW response to @baeregard))Chapter 10: Modern Military AU
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 8
Kudos: 102





	1. Shrunk in the Wash

One morning there's a knock at Clayton's door to his room in the Bullock Hotel. Matthew is, as always, sleeping like a damned log and as hot as a furnace, but somehow Clay manages to untangle himself from the preacher, snatch a shirt from the floor and throw it on with a gruff yell of 'Hold your fuckin' horses, I'm gettin' there' as a second knock is a little more frantic.

He moves the chair aside and answers the door to see Miriam. A brief startled expression flickers across her eyes before they wander over him, her usual check to ensure each of them is well. He's seen it before and he's used to it, except for the look of surprise.  
"... Did you shrink in the wash or somethin'?" comes Aly's response from behind Miriam as he passes.

Clay finally looks down at the white shirt currently swamping him.  
"Well.. shit.."

Miriam glances toward where Aly is currently heading down the stairs, grinning to himself, then turns back to Clayton and leans in, keeping her voice low and conspiratorial.

"If you and the Reverend would like to join us all for breakfast, we've got some plannin' to do."

Clay's neck goes crimson as he fights to keep his usual scowl. He's not sure if she actually winks at him or not as she smirks and heads to follow Aly, but he gives a gruff nod and shuts the door.

Matthew is somehow woken by a ball of cotton being thrown at his head. He snorts and flails a little, then squints over what he realizes is his shirt to see a mostly naked Clayton pulling his pants on rapidly.

"Why m' shirt on m' head? Clayton?"

Clay simply rolls his eyes. Matthew, for all he's an irritatingly chirpy morning person, takes a moment or three to get up to speed. Small words were needed.

"Coffee, breakfast, Miriam, planning."

The reverend blinks, wakefulness coming at both the words and their order, and he sits up to pull on the shirt.

"Alright, but why'd you throw my shirt at me?"

He's sure the grumble he gets in return is actually swear words, so he doesn't ask for clarity, just chuckles as he watches Clay.

"Think you'll find those're my pants as well."

The words that follow he does actually recognise and they make him blush and duck said article of clothing being thrown at him as well.


	2. Flirtin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on Siren!Clayton and Mason having sign language to speak to eachother

The group are in the Gem and Al Swearengen comes to see the party where they're sat around the table, and he sees Calyton and Mason gesticulating at eachother. Al looks confused, and Aly pipes up.

"Don't you be worryin' Mister Swearengen, they're jus' havin' a domestic. They'll be done in a moment."

A few days later and the same situation happens, and Al looks to Aly.  
"Another domestic?"

Aly looks a slight bit perturbed.  
"Nah, they flirtin'. Kinda wish they'd get a room to be honest wit' ya... that Preacher's downright dirty.."

Mason looks over, turning Crimson, Clayton chuckles.


	3. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble on the idea of Clayton being touchstarved

Matthew learned slowly how touch-starved Clayton was. The first time was after the whole incident with Aly and the duel. None of them were sure how he came back, including Clay himself, and Matthew put a hand on the gunslinger's shoulder and squeezed. Clay tried to hide the brief melting expression behind his usual scowl, but the reverend saw it and remembered.

The second time was after a particularly nasty incident involving Clay being shot in the leg and Arabella having to extract the bullet in the middle of the desert. He'd gripped Clay's arm and helped him to his feet after, and the gunsligner had all but collapsed against Matthew's chest for a moment, his body weak from just how much it had fucking hurt. Matthew did what came naturally and hugged the man, and Clay had sagged.

The third time was a night, again in the desert, that had turned extremely cold. The fire had burned low. They'd all piled together for warmth in a cave. Matthew had ended up with his arms around Clayton, who had his arms around Miriam in return. He'd never known the Gunslinger to sleep so soundly.

Someone from Clay's past arrives in town, someone who threatens to reveal all he's done, all he is. The guy taunts the D5 about it, clear in the street. Matthew is the first to step close, behind Clay's shoulder, pressing his chest gently to the gunslinger's back. MIriam is the second , stepping to his side, sliding an arm around his waist and glaring at the newcomer. Aly is actually next, stepping up at Clay's other shoulder and clapping a hand on it, telling said asshole that they don't care who or what he is, that he's -theirs- and no one else's. Last is Bella, who steps up, kisses Clay's cheek, then puts herself between him and the bad man and looks him square in the eye. "I'd suggest you live town, if you want to keep your life, sir." Clayton cries about it later, arms around all of them.


	4. Shelter from the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Softness for @grannyboo

It's been a bad day, tough fight after tough fight, injuries, weird shit abounding. Add to that the rain starting to fall and not looking to stop any time soon, and the mood in Deadwood was gloomy. None of the Deadwood Five had wanted to spend much time in the Gem, instead wanting to relax and lick their wounds in quieter circumstances.*

Clayton had bathed and nursed his wounds, a nasty cut to his calf and a through-and-through to his upper arm, leaving it in a sling. He'd tried to settle for an early night's rest, but sleep wasn't finding him, even when he'd tried to read one of the books 'Bella had loaned to him. He knew what he wanted, what he likely needed to find sleep that night, and he'd resisted for a good couple of hours, but finally gave in. Donning his jacket and hat again, keeping his injured arm out the sleeve, he hobbled to the church.

Mason had already settled into bed in his shirtsleeves and longjohns, blankets layered up and the Good Book as his bedtime reading, seeking his favourite comforting passages. He'd already set up the buckets to catch the water dripping through where he still needed to patch the roof. He'd not expected a knock at the door so late and had thought he'd imagined it when it came a second time, more firmly. Wrapping himself in a blanket, he shuffled to answer the door.

"Clayton?"

"... Reverend. S'wet out here. Can I come in?"

"Of course!"

He stood aside to let the other man in and quickly shut the door. Clayton, politely, was shucking his sodden hat and jacket, and turned to Matthew, meeting his gaze. It took two shambling steps to close the distance between them and he just pressed his forehead to the priest's chest, resting there. Without a word, Matthew wrapped his arms and the blanket around the other man and just held. He understood. They all had their issues, their needs, their hurts, both physical and emotional. So, he stood, heedless of the rain soaking his shirt (probably rain, not tears), gently rubbing Clay's back as the gunslinger melted against him. 

Slowly, he started to ease them both toward the bedroom and sat Clay on the bed. The blanket was settled around him, and Matthew knelt to remove his boots.

"You don't gotta do that... I can... I can go back.. 'm alright now."

"Nonsense, it's raining, it's cold and you're hurt. You're staying."

"...alright."

The quiet capitulation caught him off-guard, told him that Clay, as always, was hiding a lot behind his tough-guy veneer. He stepped around the bed and slid under the rest of the blankets, settling on his back. It didn’t take much urging to settle Clay’s head against his chest, and he felt an arm around his belly, squeezing briefly. Sleep found them both very quickly as the rain continued to patter against the roof.


	5. Haunted By His Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I entirely blame Baeuregard and the NSFW chat crew for this one.

Matthew had been _good_ at what he did in the cavalry, the big man great with horses, a decent shot, and hell on two legs when it got down to a brawl. It was when he was in camp that caused the issue. Sure, men in the unit helped take care of each other's 'needs' and didn't speak about it after. Some even had their favourites and their close intimate friends and such and that was fine.

Matthew realised his feelings ran deeper than others when he saw the man he had started to fall for killed and got mocked for crying about it, for staying awake at night, remembering the man's eyes, his mouth, how he'd pressed close in the darkness and they'd tasted eachother's sweat. "It's war, Mason. Be a man about it. People get kill't all the time." his sergeant had growled at him. The night before another battle, he stared and stared at hands and didn't sleep.

Battle started and Matthew turned his horse the other way and ran. Kept running. found a town and changed his name. Befriended a preacher who helped him find a little peace, got him into the church and set him on a different path. One where, big man or not, he was allowed, encouraged even, to care about people. It sat a little lighter on his shoulders than his uniform jacket had.

The feelings didn't go away, though. They remained like the embers of a burned down campfire. He'd get to know men in his parish and he'd end up fantasizing about what it'd be like to be with them, to hold them, to kiss them. He fantasized and he folded it away into a part deep inside of him and never let it show. Ever.

And then he ended up moving to Deadwood, a town that really didn't need or want a priest but had one anyway because it's what towns had. Where he'd been told that so long as he didn't mean harm to anyone in the town, no one cared what he did. He still didn't open that tiny box deep inside of himself that had all those folded away emotions. He couldn't. It would destroy him.

And then along came one Clayton 'The Coffin' Sharpe and his icy eyes and soft hair and manicured beard and moustaches. The man didn't comment either way on his preferences, but how he denied the women of the Bella Union and kept his gaze for the men of the town spoke volumes. He was quiet about it sure; so far as anyone knew, he didn't share his bed ever, but some men's gazes he held longer than others, some men he gave a slightly more _significant_ glance and nod to.

One night at the Gem, stood at the bar to collect drinks for the group with Matthew's aid, a drunkard bumped into Clayton, and Clay dutifully nudged him back to standing and turned away. The drunkard, however, didn't let it drop.

"Hey cocksucker, get your damn hands off me, don't want you touching me!"

Clayton almost looked tired as he rounded on the man, stared straight him straight in the eye and said:

"Son, ain't you got more creative insults than straight up tellin' me what I am? Get home and get sober 'fore you go startin' somethin' you won't finish."

Whatever he saw in Clay's eyes, the man couldn't leave the Gem fast enough. Those words, however, echoed through Mason's skull as he stared at the gunslinger, frozen in place. He'd tried so very hard not to stare at Clayton, not to enjoy how he moved when he was fighting or cleaning his guns or downing a whiskey. Not to enjoy the slow rolling drawl of his voice, like fingers over bared skin down his spine. Not to entirely lose himself in those eyes which were now glaring at him, challenging him to say something.

The moment stretched, and the ice melted a little, head tilting perhaps in recognition of _something_. He gave a soft grunt, the barest ghost of a smile, and carried the bottle of whiskey he'd purchased back to the table, leaving Mason to catch up behind.

And that's how it started.

The next time they camped while on the trail of something big and scary, Clayton made it a point to sit by Mason each time, slowly ending up a slight bit closer each time until their knees touched. Matthew glanced at him then, and he let their eyes meet, let him see the barest hit on a tiny smile for a moment, before breaking away like it was nothing.

It wasn't nothing to _Matthew_ though. That smile made his breath catch in his chest as he just stared at the back of Clayton's head as the gunslinger exchanged more insults with Aly and got reprimanded for it by Miriam. He felt the latch on a tiny box inside of him click open.Coming back to himself, he licked his lips and went back to eating his refried bean hash. He didn't move away from Clayton, however.

Clay had worked with shy, nervous horses back out in Texas. He knew you had to go slow with them. Matthew reminded him of one stallion who'd ended up afraid of his own shadow. You had to work with a horse like that, get them used to your proximity and then show them that the shadow isn't a problem., so that's how he goes with Matthew, getting closer little by little.

At one point, the party has to split to deal with a problem, and it ends up with just he and Matthew camping out together, on the trail. It's getting cold, toward winter, so the nights get freezing and blankets don't quite chase the chill away. He watches the preacher shivering and wrapping his hands around the coffee in his tin cup and can't take it any more.

"Y'know, you sit closer t'me, you're gonna be warmer."

Matthew stares again, like he did that time in the Gem. Clay doesn't think he's going to move, but he does, slowly, tentatively. Clay lifts one side of his blanket where he's sat comfy with his back to his saddle, and Matthew, bigger man or not, settles under it. He leaves his arm loose around the priest's shoulders so he can _feel_ when Mason lets out his tension all at once. He doesn't comment when he catches the reflection of moisture on the man's cheeks.

Matthew, for his part, felt something _give_ inside him at that warmth, that arm around him, that acceptance. He doesn't comment, but he can tell Clayton has figured him out, the same way the gunslinger seems to figure _everything_ out, how that gaze looks past any barriers anyone has. For most it's so Clay can find exactly where to place a bullet, but for him... it's something else. That tiny box inside his chest bursts wide open and he can't help it. That feeling called hope that he's tucked away for so long tells him that _maybe, just maybe_ he's found someone who isn't just out for a quick fumble in the shadows to relieve tension. Someone who might want those complicated, ignored feelings.

So he weeps into his coffee and lets the shivers abate and sleeps against Clayton Sharpe's chest without fear.

Thus becomes the new normal among the group who, all of them having their own issues, doesn't comment on how Clayton and Matthew's bedrolls are always right next to eachother, and how they often end up with shared blankets. About how over time, the two end up waking more and more tangled together. Still fully clothed, but there's no mistaking how the Reverend's face is buried against Clay's neck, or how Clay's arms and leg wrap around the larger man protectively.

They return to Undeadwood one night after a particularly harrowing time. They've had to clear something nasty out of a mine. Clayton didn't quite get what it was, some kind of flesh blob monster that had consumed the bodies of the mine workers and was using their faces and voices to make an unholy noise and bait more people down there. Arabella's occult knowledge hadn't been able to do anything, but they'd all noticed when it had managed to trip Mason and tried to drag him in. It had -screamed- when it touched his flesh, recoiled.

Matthew had had to pray fervently for about five hours while they drove it back down the tunnels to it's source and set it on fire. Between the Reverend's losing battle to keep his voice and the smell of burning flesh, all of them needed a bath, a drink and some time to recover. Clayton had been bothered by how Mason hadn't spoken, just taken himself off to his rooms above the church. He followed after saying a curt good night to the others. He wasn't one for churches, but he'd need to make an exception.

He found Matthew curled into a ball beside the altar, his pack dumped on the floor, shuddering, arms wrapped around himself. Without a thought, he wrapped himself around and held tight and waited. Matthew tensed but eased, the shudders slowly abating. A hand eased out and gripped Clay's arm and that started the tangling process. Eventually he had his arms around the priest, the man's head on his shoulder, and drew back enough to look at his face. His features were crumpled like old newspaper, his skin blotchy and eyes red. Clay couldn't help himself, couldn't prevent taking action. He leaned in and lightly, ever so carefully, pressed his lips to Matthew's, hoping to feed his strength, his care, into the gesture, and give a hand up from that black pit of despair and fear.

He hadn't expected Matthew to kiss back, let alone hit their teeth together, press hard enough to bruise, and get a hand around the back of his neck as though he were a drowning man and Clay was the only floating object he could see. He didn't know how long that kiss lasted, moments or days, but when it broke, Matthew's despair had been replaced with wonder as he stared.

"I... you... I'm sorry."

He tried to move, but Clay just held on as best he could. Larger man or not, the exhausted Reverend lost the battle.

"Now hold on a minute. Whatchu sorry for, Matthew?"

"For... for kissing..."

"Maybe you didn' notice, but _I_ kissed _you_."

"Oh."

He'd been trying to hastily stuff those old feelings back into their box again, but he stopped and _looked_ properly at Clayton Sharpe for a moment. Those memories of hidden smiles and shared heat and tangled bodies under two blankets in the morning sun all came back. And _oh_. He saw now, Clayton didn't pack his feelings away, he'd slowly laid them out around Matthew, piece by piece, in the hope that maybe, someday, he'd see the shape of them, and he saw it now.

They didn't need words to explain to eachother that they needed to get up and go to Mason's rooms above the church, they just moved, guiding eachother with gentle touches and tugs to sleeves. Behind the closed door, they got to the bed, settled on it, and their mouths found eachother again. The weariness from the road and their struggles was forgotten as they peeled dust-riddled clothes away from sun dried skin. When Clay finally entered him and Matthew saw his face, that box in his chest was finally smashed forever. He felt _home_ , felt _seen_ by a pair of icy blue eyes, like no one had seen him before, save perhaps God.

After that, while they kept it careful and quiet in public or around the others, when they went into Matthew's rooms, there was never a moment where they didn't touch somewhere, even if it were just fingers curled together. In the night time, Clayton murmured soft words to Matthew, telling as well as showing how there was no more need for shame or hiding, how whatever had gone on before like that, all Clay had for him was acceptance, patience, time and care.


	6. When You're Angry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clay had expected the Reverend to be a soft and quiet man. He isn't.

Clayton thought he'd gotten pretty good at reading people over the years. He'd already pegged that Miriam, while quiet, had steel beneath the softness, steel sharp as any blade you could ask for. He'd not cross her for anything. As for Arabella, her core was stone rather than steel, tough granite that could have chips taken from it and still keep standing, cold and untouchable.

He'd thought the Reverend, tall and stocky as he was, was yet another soft man of the cloth, a draft horse of a man, big but gentle.   
That was until they got into a situation where some bandits had taken a liking to the group and targeted Miriam as their first victim. The sharp warning in Matthew's voice as he called over to them, how he carefully urged his horse forward with just his knees as both hands were now on his shotgun, both caught Clay's attention.

The warning was followed with a growl that rolled through the big man's lungs.  
"Get your goddamn hands off those reins and step back, gentlemen, 'less you want to find yourselves on the business end of my gun..."

Clay wasn't sure which took him by surprise more, that tone of voice, or that the entire scene sent a shiver down his spine that ended up in his groin.

Clayton didn't actively decide to keep pushing at the reverend so he'd hear that voice, not really, it was accidental at first. He'd made a comment about preachers and uses for their bibles that had caused Matthew's nostrils to flare, and he'd just... run with it.

Comments about preachers staying in the back out of combat seemed to get to him most, considering how many times Clay had seen him put that shotgun to use, among other destructive abilities the Dealer had provided them (though Matthew of course swore it was God, not the devil). 

This all culminated in one evening, Clay walking with the Reverend on the way back to the Bullock, and he just had to comment.

"Seems I spend a good bit of the evenings walking you or one of the ladies back to the hotel, and I'm pretty sure they can take care of themselves.."

Next thing, he found himself dragged into the alley between two buildings, his back slammed against the wood siding. The reverend's two large, string hands smacked into the wood either side of his head and they ended up nose to nose, Matthew snarling.

"Just -what- is your problem, Mister Sharpe? I have proven myself to all the others time and time again, and yet you continue to poke at me. What does it take to shut up your snide and insulting comments?"

Clay's eyes went wide, one hand reflexively reaching for the knife at his belt, though he arrested the motion as he realised it. Instead he just felt himself freeze, staring at the Reverend, pupils blown.

For a moment, Matthew thought he had truly frightened Clay and relented a little, relaxing. He considered the gunslinger's face a moment longer, and realized his mistake, drawing back in disgust.

"... You have been poking me because you -enjoy- seeing me angry?"

"No! No.. just.."  
Clay spluttered, skin flushing as he realized both what he'd been doing and why. He turned away from Matthew, ashamed.  
"The strength of your anger... surprised me, the first time. You're good at using it."

Disgust turned to utter confusion as Matthew backed off further, not entirely sure what Clayton had meant. He remained silent, staring, not quite having calmed from his irritation.

Now he was in the moment of confrontation, Clay entirely regretted every moment, considering a way to get out and keep his dignity intact.

"I apologize. I won't make no more comments, You've my word on that. Can we forget this?"

"On one condition. Look me in the eye and tell me the real reason you were bugging me."

He glared at Clay who slowly turned his head to meet the Reverend's angry gaze. It took a moment, but Clay steadied himself, straightening his spine and regaining his usual tone of voice that dared people to have question on what a dangerous man was saying.

"Because seein' a man of the cloth show his spine turns out to be a damn attractive prospect."

Of all the responses Clay could have given, this wasn't the one Matthew had expected, nor was he prepared for the unabashed delivery of it. That attitude of daring others to question his words had drawn his attention to the gunslinger from the start, though it seemed he'd been far better at hiding such thoughts than Clay had.

"Well, alright then."

Clayton had barely been given a moment to contemplate such a reaction before he'd found himself dragged further down the alley, pinned against the back wall of the building, well out of sight of the street, and kissed within an inch of his life. 

He wasn't going to fight the Reverend about it, however.


	7. Behind the Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clayton helps Matty keep his harmless mask, and let off some tension when needed.

Clayton almost felt like he was intruding as he watched the micro-expressions flit across Matthew's face. He'd heard the chucklefucks at the bar commenting on the reverend being in the Gem again, sat with people known to be odd or dangerous, with a nursed glass of whiskey in front of him. He knew the man worked hard at his innocent and harmless persona, knew it because he worked so hard on his own persona, trying to stay cold and hard and distant from people he had ended up genuinely touched by in their concern for his safety and well-being. He'd surprised Miriam one evening when she'd checked on him, and he'd hugged her spontaneously, forgetting himself for a moment. Her conspiratorial look told him she'd keep his secret.

He moved a boot to nudge at Matthew's foot, making the reverend look up and met the man's gaze. He let his mask slip, just a little, and gave a soft smile, one he hoped would read of how he had Matthew's back, but it wasn't worth rising to their bait. To his relief, the scowl dropped and the smile was returned before the larger man returned to his reading, or pretending to read, the bible. 

The chucklefucks continued, and Matthew's knuckles grew more and more white as they gripped the book. Eventually Clay got up.   
"Gettin' some air. Wanna join me, Reverend?"  
Matthew looked up, slightly surprised, but nodded.  
"I'll gladly keep you company, Mister Sharpe."  
He walked a ways away from the saloon to a quieter part of town, then around the corner of a closed shop to keep them out of sight.

"Alrighty, let it out, should be fine here."  
The tyrade of epithets had been expected, as had the anger behind them, but the depth and breadth caught Clayton slightly off guard. he waited until it was done to speak.  
"Better?"  
Matthew's slightly shy smile was downright adorable, and Clay couldn't help but show a conspiratorial grin.  
"Yeah... thank you for that."  
He threw an arm around Matthew, a half-hug, and the two chuckled.  
"Any time, friend."


	8. Something Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt by eld: The Reverend is revealed as undead due to a new gadget of Arabella's.

All eyes turned to Matthew as the green crystal Arabella held out glowed when pointed at him.  
Checking the group had at first been a bit of fun. Obviously Clay had set it off, being what he was, and none of the others had, until it turned to the priest.

"Well. This is awkward." he'd murmured, eyeing the crystal and then his friends.

"There somethin' you wanna tell us,. Reverend?" drawled Aly, fingers quietly sliding to rest on his pistol. It was more a reassurance than anything, but still.

Clay's expression turned curious as well. They'd been together for a few weeks now, since the priest had welcomed his return with a prolonged kiss, much to the alarm and surprise of the others. They'd otherwise kept things between themselves and learned about each-other through long conversations in the night time.

Apart from, it seemed, one important detail.

"Well. There's a reason I ended up as a priest, kind of... an agreement.. with another man of God who helped me some time ago. I was in... a bad place. I had seen too much fighting and fled from it, which you know. I didn't just run, however. I tried..."  
A pause and a hard swallow as he glanced to Clay for strength. The gunslinger nodded his encouragement.  
"I tried to end it. Permanently."

Arabella's hand rose to her throat, Miriam's gaze turned sorrowful, as he'd expected. Aly looked skeptical, but remained quiet.

"I succeeded, for a few minutes, or so it seemed. Next thing I know, I wake in a church, candles and incense around me, and an old man, a priest, with his hand on my chest, holding his rosary."  
He nervously reached for the beads in his pocket. It was the same one, deeply burnished rosewood on silver linkages.

"He said... I had a choice. Stay alive, but serve God, or I'd only have that moment with him to make atonement, then meet the aferlife. I'd... chosen the former, obviously. He smiled at me... and then. Then he...."

This time, the wave of sorrow rose over him rather than the others and he dropped their gazes. He didn't hide pulling the rosary from his pocket.  
"He... died. Just laid down beside me and breathed his last. I found his journal. His name had been Matthew Mason. He'd left one last letter for me as well, telling me to take his name, his life, and make it mine. Do better. Be good. So... here I am."


	9. Against the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A response to Baeregard's thirsty post in the Undeadwood Discord's NSFW channel.  
> Love you hun <3
> 
> Matthew gets a little revenge on Clayton.

Al Swearengen had called them all to his office the very next day, informing them that the nasty thing they thought they'd come home from vanquishing had reared it's ugly head again, and that they'd best get moving to see it done in for good. Riding back out, Matthew couldn't help but tease at Clayton a little, catching the gunslinger's eye and toying with the collar of his office. They both knew it hid a purple bruise beneath it. Clay gave back just as well, adjusting the collar of his jacket over his shoulder, a similar mark beneath. They'd had to turn away to hide their grins.

This time, the Deadwood Five got their job done for good. They could tell by the amount of gunk splattered at them when the creature had exploded at it's end. Finally done, and mostly clean, they headed into the Gem triumphant, took up their table and requested dinner and drinks. Relief mixed with the pleasure at a job well done. 

Beneath the table, Matthew had felt Clay's fingers brush over his knee and settle there. Noticed how they eased toward his inseam and slowly, carefully, moved upward. He'd got better at controlling his blushes and hiding his glares toward the gunslinger. Clay gave nothing back, keeping his attention on a conversation between Aly and Miriam, even murmuring a few words to be involved. The fingers moved higher, seeking their target. Eventually, Matthew had enough and carefully got to his feet.

"I think I might turn in, friends. God bless you all and give you good sleep."

Amid murmurs of farewell, Clayton got to his feet as well. "Walk you back to the church, reverend?"

"Sure."

They didn't see the knowing looks between their friends.

Matthew lead the way into the church and didn't give any warning when he turned on Clayton, pinning the gunslinger to the door with his weight and pressing their mouths together. It wasn't desperation as it had been before, this was  _ payback _ pure and simple. 

\--

Clay met this aggression happily, gripping the hair at the back of the reverend's head, tugging at it's roots enough to be felt, not enough to tear at them. He heard Matthew turn the key in the lock by his hip, sealing them in, shutting the world out, focusing the both of them. The kiss left his lips bruised, a passing thought there may be a split. Neither of them could help the grin.

"Like that is it?"

He'd never heard the  _ growl _ that came from Matty's chest and throat as he lunged in again, this time lips and teeth scraping the shell of Clay's ear, his words and tone rolling down his spine like molten lead.

"Brought this on yourself, Clay. Now I'm gonna fuck you right against this door. Problem with that?"

Clay's response was to grip harder, his words overtaken by a corresponding low groan. It wasn't often the easy-going priest liked to take charge, often more than happy to comply with the other's ideas and initiatives. He wasn't about to say no to a further peek into the mind of his lover and his desires.

"Get your coat off then, and turn around."

The rush of cooler air between them as Matthew backed off was almost as delicious as the heat of their closeness. Their eyes remained locked, the priest's burning as he shed his own jacket, untucked the collar from his neck and unfastened his shirt. Both of them had scars and bruises aplenty, but tonight wasn't the night to play at cataloguing them. Clay lost his jacket and parted his own shirt then turned. 

He didn't quite bump his head on the door when Matthew pressed to his back but it was a near thing. His hands ended up busied bracing against their combined weight, frustrating any desires he might have to touch back, which just wound him up further. He felt hands everywhere, still gloved, smoothed leather over his heated skin and hardness pressed to his backside. His head tilted, giving access to his neck. Lips and teeth found his bared skin and it won him another growl.

\--

Matthew gave himself a moment to breathe, reign in his desires and hormones for a moment or two more. There was something specific he had been wanting. He distracted himself by drawing a leather-covered finger against Clay's lips, nudging past them, letting the thin hide get caught between teeth, a little help to tug the glove free, leaving in his lover's mouth. He dragged the pads of now bared fingers down Clay's chest, then once again drew back and tugged the open shirt the rest of the way off, drank in the image of his lover shirtless, braced against the door of the church and glancing over his shoulder, waiting. 

He lost his shirt as well and pressed close once more, his mouth starting to press a line of wet kisses over Clay's shoulder, tongue sliding against the skin each time, tasting. He could feel Clay trying to squirm and held a little tighter, not quite restraining but encouraging to keep still. He felt a breath catch as the line of kisses turned to head down the spine. 

Clayton pressed his cheek to the door, turning himself over to Matthew's tender ministrations. He remembered the first time this had happened, he'd wondered just where the good reverend was leading. As much as the kisses felt good, he hadn't quite expected where that mouth would end up nor what it would do there. Now, he knew better. Now, his cock twitched in his long johns on feeling Matty's hands unfastening his belt and pushing them down, and those wicked lips smiling against his skin as they pressed against his skin just above the cleft of his rear. He was given chance to say no. He didn't.

Matthew gladly sank to his knees, face burying between the cleft of Clayton's backside, tongue seeking his entrance, those sensitive areas no one but he got anywhere near. He lapped at the area, tongue sliding against that puckered flesh in the way he knew had made the gunslinger squirm. 

\--

He reached up, rough fingers dragging up the still moist flesh of Clay's spine, pressing him to the door to keep him still, the other hand's fingers digging bruises into his hip.

Nails dragged against the wood of the doorframe, Clayton panting against it, alternately cursing and praising Matthew within his head, unable to quite put voice to his thoughts in that moment. He parted his legs as far as his trousers would let him, ending up kicking free of one leg and boot with a growl and pressing his hips back, wanting more and  _ now _ . That devilish tongue teased into him and elicited the softest whimper from him, shaped into a single word.

"Please."

Matthew couldn't deny him, standing and pressing himself to his lover's back. He fumbled a little with his belt and pants, eventually freeing his already weeping cock. Already slick, it didn't take too much to press himself into Clayton, stifling a shuddering moan against his shoulder and resting there, the two joined.

Clay pressed back again, encouraging Matthew to move. The pace was slow, too slow. Slow was nice sometimes; they'd spent hours in the past, exploring the concept of 'slow' together. He wasn't in the mood for molasses, could tell by how tense Matty was behind him that the priest wasn't either. Both of them wanted that burn like whiskey and he reached back to squeeze the other's hip.

"Fuck me, Matty."

The first thrust had him grabbing the door again, partly to brace and partly in effort to stop it rattling in the doorframe. His lover knew how to use that powerful body. He'd asked for his, teased for it, and now he got what he wanted. Matthew pushed hard, fast and deep into him, gripping him easily hard enough to add yet more bruises, that they'd both feel it in the morning. He bit down on one of his own still-gloved hands, muffling his sounds. Had they been somewhere more private, or perhaps later at night, he'd have shouted loud enough to shake the rafters.

\--

Knowing he wouldn't last all that much longer, Matthew reached for Clayton's exposed arousal, gripping it and stroking. He smiled against the other's shoulder at the strangled whine that joined muffled panting and sped up, driving them both hard and fast for release. His own happened first, smashing into him like a bullet, taking him by surprise, emptying him into Clayton, ending him almost lightheaded. 

He was followed down soon after, grunting softly at the glorious feeling of Clayton Sharpe spasming around him, spilling himself against the church door. They both sagged against it, drawing gasping breaths, and lost a few minutes of time recovering. 

Clayton broke the silence with a huffed chuckle, broken by a murmur as he turned, letting Matthew slide from him, then gathering the priest in his arms. He sought kisses, slow and relaxed this time, no more bruised lips.

"So that's a yes to windin' you up at the Gem huh?"

There was one last spark left in Matthew Mason, enough to nip at Clay's lower lip and grumble.

"Bastard, that wasn't fair."

" _ Your _ bastard though..."

".. My bastard."

It was only then that it hit Matthew; he and Clayton were stood half naked, post-coital, in the church, and he  _ hadn't checked if anyone was there first. _ On mentioning this to Clay, the two laughed loud and long on their way to bed.


	10. Missing In Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Random prompt idea for a modern military AU.

_ Dear Mrs Sharpe _

_ My name is Chaplain Matthew Mason and it was my pleasure to serve with your son, Corporal Clayton Sharpe. It is with great sorrow that we have had to designate him Missing in Action. While we do not know for sure if he has passed, we are sadly not able to seek him out behind enemy lines. _

_ For all he was a quiet man, Clayton showed his complete dedication to his unit, to protect them and serve his country in combat with expertise and honour. Those of us who knew him feel his loss deeply. _

_ I hope to see you once we return to US soil, and will be part of the detail to deliver the memorial flag for him to you. _

_ Warmest regards _

_ Chaplain (Seargent) Matthew Mason _

\-----

Matthew signed the letter and slid it into the envelope. He'd just about managed to keep his cool while writing it but now, as he pushed the letter gently aside on his desk, he broke down. Having to leave the injured Clayton behind in order to complete their work to help the refugees across the border had hurt them all;, himself, Miriam their commanding officer, Arabella, their medic, and Aly, their sharpshooter on overwatch. There had been an explosion not long after, and Clay had disappeared in the smoke and dust kicked up by it. No chance to find him or his body, if there was one. He sat back and sighed. Usually he looked forward to returning home; he'd made plans with Clayton to spend some time together, he'd hoped to see if their close friendship ended up as something more, or just reinforced. Now, he had a grieving mother to go comfort, as well as looking after those under his care while on duty.

Two years later

The group returned to base, tired, dusty, vaguely bruised and battered, but alive. All of them wanted to head to their barracks and get clean and eat, but instead, Miriam and Matthew, her 2IC, were pulled into the commander's tent.

“New job for you, leaving tomorrow, 0900. Escorting Spec Ops to a rendezvous with a contact. Normally they’d not need us, but we know the area better.”

He gestured to the man who was sat with his back to them, and he stood, turned.

“Specialist Sharpe is who you’re escorting.”

Matthew went still, felt the cold creep over him as though seeing a ghost. Clayton, thankfully, had the wits to look sheepish as he took off his peaked field cap and met Matthew’s eyes.

“Good to see ya both..”

Without preamble, Miriam approached, set her feet, and punched Clayton square in the gut, bending him double, and was about to follow with an uppercut when Matthew came to and grabbed for his commanding officer’s fist.

“Hey now, boss.. Don’t want a court martial.”

Their commander had stepped forward, furious, but Clayton waved him off, coughing, and straightened.

"It's fine, I deserved that... got some debrief to do with these guys before tomorrow."

Perturbed, the commander dismissed the lot. Once clean, they all, Clayton included, reconvened int he mess. Aly had looked similarly shaken, even more so when Clay had said anything about what happened was 'classified'. Tension passed, they returned mostly to the previous rapport, joking with Sharpe and sharing food.

Later that evening, Matthew had headed to the tent set aside for his work as Chaplain and had settled there for a moment or two of private prayer. Clayton had coughed quietly outside, disturbing the moment.

"Can I come in, Mason?"

"Sure."

With the tent flap closed, the two men simply stared at each-other for a moment, and both stepped forward at once, drawing into a tight hug.

"Goddamnit, I should have let Miriam punch you."

"Kinda glad you didn't, I'd be in the med instead of here..."

"Yeah well. Was about to punch you myself."

"... thinkin' Miriam's still scarier."

"Asshole."

They drew back but stayed in contact, not helping mutual grins, though Matthew's faded.

"... I saw your mother."

Clay's expression dropped as well.

"Yeah... I heard. Thank you for that. I... I can't tell her yet. Too much shit to get done and stay under wraps, you know?"

"Sure.. but you will, right?"

"Promise."

They spoke long into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from The Preacher by Jamie N Commons


End file.
